


Digging Up the Future

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Archaeology, Banter, First Meetings, Flash Fic, Gen, Historical References, Original Character(s), Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: For the "Archaeologists AU" prompt, which I couldn't resist.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher & Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 95
Collections: Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge Heat 2





	Digging Up the Future

Jack Robinson stood on the low rise and stretched, an activity for which he had little opportunity during the day. The twilight gathered by imperceptible degrees, and a breeze came with it. Gradually the shouting and the singing of the men died away, as they departed in cheerful, noisy knots.

“Well, Murad,” said Robinson at last, “this may be our last sunset.”

The foreman sighed. “Insha’Allah.”

“Insha’Allah,” returned Robinson grimly, “but most so-called benefactors I’ve known regularly confused their own desires with the will of the Almighty.”

Murad shrugged expressively. Jack Robinson made a sound under his breath. “Do you know,” asked Murad conversationally, “that you do that rather frequently?”

“Do what?”

“Growl.”

“I do not…” He met Murad’s eyes, and his own lightened. “Fair enough.” Jack Robinson sighed, and dug out his tobacco pouch. When he had made and lit their cigarettes, he dropped to his haunches in the sand.

“I’m sure I’m a grumpy old sod,” he said.

“Sod?”

“It’s… well, I’m sure you have more vivid words for it. Grumpy bastard, if you prefer.”

“These are harsh words for a man who does not wish to lose his work.”

“Well, that’s just it. Where will we go, Murad? Two grumpy old… men who care more about a world that existed thousands of years ago than about the mess people are managing to make of the world today?”

Again Murad shrugged. “That world,” he said softly, “will always be with us.” In silence the two men watched the sunset, until a darkness thick and tangible covered the desert and its forgotten cities, the men and the tips of their cigarettes that glowed like fallen stars.

*

It was 10 o’clock the next day when the automobile arrived. This is to say that Jack Robinson, Murad, and the workers they supervised had been laboring for several hours when those sharper of hearing (or more eager for distraction) reported a distant motor.

Jack Robinson, cataloguing potsherds, growled. He then told himself this was a bad habit, cursed, apologized, and went out to know the worst.

The worst turned out to be a scarlet Hispano-Suiza. “In the _desert_?” he said to Murad.

“You will bring misfortune upon us all by your bad temper,” said Murad; “may the account be settled between you and God.”

“Fine, I’ll shut up.” 

It occurred to him the next moment that it was an opportune promise. He had been expecting Baron Henry Fisher to be a highly disagreeable man. He had seen the man’s picture in London papers and had not been favorably impressed. He had been expecting him to be a boor and a bully. He had not been expecting the woman who climbed out of the driver’s seat of the Hispano-Suiza and strode across the sand as if she were used to it. Jack Robinson became conscious of a definitely appreciative murmur behind him. Oddly, the woman did not seem in the least discomfited by it. If anything, when a gesture from Murad successfully quelled it, her face fell slightly.

“Professor Robinson?”

“It’s Mr.,” he said, and held out his hand almost as an afterthought.

“Phryne Fisher,” said the remarkable apparition. “The Hon. Miss, but I don’t insist on it. Rather the reverse. Call me Phryne.” Jack suppressed the remark that the name was rather conspicuously appropriate. He found himself sympathizing vividly with the lawmakers of ancient Athens. 

“My father wasn’t well enough to make the trip,” said the Hon. Miss Fisher brightly. “Will you show me around the dig?”

In something like desperation Jack Robinson turned to his foreman.

“May hell be your place of resurrection,” said Murad pleasantly in Arabic, “if you do not do as she says.”

“I curse you,” returned Jack Robinson, “while my heart seeks God’s forgiveness.” In English he added: “By all means, Miss Fisher.” 

He meekly walked her around the trenches, around the carefully-marked places that had been houses and streets, pointing out the careful rounding of the corners, the cobblestones, the system of wells. He pointed out the great temple complex in the center.

“…Really remarkable brickwork,” he heard himself saying, and cursed inwardly. She would think him irredeemably dull. _And not give you the funding you need_ came as an afterthought. This in itself was disturbing; should not that have been his first and only consideration? Jack Robinson became aware of the fact that they were standing still.

“My apologies, Miss Fisher.”

“It’s quite all right.” She made the remark as if absent-mindedly. “You must keep long hours.”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“And do most of the work yourself?”

“No. There’s Murad — a linguistic expert, among other things. And Hugo: somebody’s nephew, but he’s a good lad. Painstaking about detail, which is the important thing. You needn’t be brilliant as long as you know how to respect a clay pot as much as you do a gold ring, and a latrine as much as a royal tomb. But,” continued Jack, consciously pulling himself together, “it is a small archaeological team; mostly just laborers. This isn’t Ur, after all,” he added, and hoped he didn’t sound bitter.

Phryne Fisher smiled. “No, well, not everyone can have Abraham’s house to titillate the newspapers with. Woolley’s quite charming, though.”

“A great scholar,” said Jack Robinson, with sinking heart. If he were competing for her funds with Woolley…

“Tell me why you love it,” said Phryne Fisher suddenly.

“What?”

“This place. The wells. The royal tombs and latrines.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tell me why you love it.”

Jack Robinson swallowed. “I love it,” he said, “because it is utterly strange, and I can walk around it as you walk around London or Melbourne. The ziggurat was dedicated to the moon god, and the bricks were painted black, and it was a place of darkness and awe. The houses — well, I’ve told you about that. We can see where people must have hung their laundry, and argued with their neighbors; we know where they kept their barley and their olive oil. They lived here and they kept their gardens and obeyed the king’s laws — or didn’t — and fell in love and got married and offered statues of lovers to the gods. They prayed for safety. They prayed for good luck.” 

Phryne Fisher was gazing at him with her lips slightly parted, and Jack Robinson forced himself to smile. “They weren’t,” he said lamely, “so very different, after all. And yet, they are utterly strange.”

“You’re a strange man yourself, Jack Robinson.”

He turned a little away from her. “Probably.”

“How many more men do you need?”

“What?”

“Men — or women, really, so much the better if you can find them — for the archaeological team.”

Jack Robinson opened his mouth. He closed it again. “Six,” he said, and felt guilty. “I could make do with three, _alhamdulillah_.”

Phryne Fisher smiled, and Jack Robinson felt uneasily certain that there was mischief behind her smile. “Good,” she said briskly. “Somewhere in your strange city, Jack Robinson, there must be a place where a woman can write a check and drink a large gin. Lead me to it.”

Jack Robinson, entirely beyond words, obeyed.

**Author's Note:**

> The importance of Murad as expert and partner to the public-facing archaeologist is based on Sir Leonard Woolley's _Digging Up the Past_. Murad and Jack both use local Iraqi curses (mildly.)


End file.
